No One Stands Alone
by allgreycats
Summary: Four years after leaving the Choctaw Nation, Mattie hires a soon-to-be retired LaBoeuf to escort her to Dallas on business.  An outlaw gang, new friends, and Mattie's own growing emotions throw a wrench in the works, however. Mattie/LaBoeuf eventually
1. Chapter 1

No One Stands Alone

/

1881

It is nearly four years after I have left the Choctaw territory bound for Yell County, one arm and $50 lighter, that I hear from LaBoeuf the Texas Ranger. He comes calling first in the form of a letter, which I find overly long and containing a good deal of bluster about his work in Texas. His punctuation is more-or-less acceptable.

He writes to tell me that he will be coming up to Dardanelle in September to give the Sheriff some information on the matter of a pair of armed robbers, brothers named Paddy and Cecil Mauldin. LaBoeuf tells me he pursued them briefly through the north of Texas, but that the Mauldin boys fled to Arkansas and their capture will now be in the hands of our capable law enforcement. I recall seeing a wanted notice in the newspaper about the Mauldins, but other than a few sightings, they seem to be laying low in Arkansas.

In his letter, LaBoeuf wonders if I will have some time to catch up and talk about as he put it, "old times." He then asks if I knew of any boarding houses in town with reasonable rates.

I write back immediately:

_Dear Mr. LaBoeuf,_

_I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear that you have been well these past few years. How time does pass! It seems only yesterday that you and Marshal Cogburn were courageously dispatching corn dodgers on the prairie._

_When you make your way up to Dardanelle next month, I insist you stay as a guest in the Ross estate. We are only a short ride from town, and I assure you the meals will be far better here than in any boarding house. We have plenty of room for you, and I do not intend to take no for an answer._

_You seem to have made quite an impression here when last you came into town in pursuit of Tom Chaney. Mother, Victoria and Frankie (especially Frankie) are looking forward to hosting a real Texas Ranger._

_Yours truly,_

_Mattie Ross_

His response arrives a week before he does:

_Many thanks, Miss Ross. I will take you up on your offer, which is very generous. It has been quite some time since I have had a home-cooked meal. _

_You can expect me sometime after the 20__th__. I will not trouble you too long, my visit should last only a few days._

_LaBoeuf, Texas Ranger_

/

Frankie spots him first, from what I suspect is his hidden vantage point behind the sofa, looking out the front picture window. I had been after Frankie all afternoon to help Victoria clean the silver, but he kept slipping off to keep vigil for Mr. LaBoeuf's arrival.

"He's here!" Frankie's boots clatter rapidly on the floor. "He's here, I seen him!"

I stand from my desk where I'd been writing this month's expenses into the ledger and head downstairs, reaching the bottom step just Frankie as bolts into the foyer. I catch him under the arms and sweep him off his feet in mid-run. At the age of eleven, he is growing quickly, but I have the advantage of size yet. As a child I was always tall for my age, and I seem to have topped off at five feet and seven inches.

I spin Frankie around in the opposite direction and point him toward the kitchen.

"Running in the house! I'll box your ears, Franklin Ross. Go find Victoria and Mama and alert everyone that Mr. LaBoeuf has arrived."

He scowls but obediently tramps off, leaving me alone.

The house feels suddenly still. I can hear the murmur of female voices from far off, probably Mama and Nettie, our cook, in the pantry. The screen door to the rear porch yawns open then shuts again, but even that seems oddly muted. I take a breath, and step out the front door onto the veranda.

Frankie is not mistaken. LaBoeuf is coming up the path, perched upon his tawny appaloosa. He notices me and slows the pony. He is a ways off yet and he makes, it seems to me, a quite exaggerated display of squinting in my direction, like he is not sure what he is looking at. The brim of his hat casts a deep shadow and I cannot see his eyes, but I have the impression he is somehow amused.

He slides down off the appaloosa and walks it the rest of the way up. Frankie must have done as I asked, for Edie, one of the stable hands comes out from the barn and takes the appaloosa's reins from LaBoeuf. LaBoeuf gives the young man a few brief instructions before patting him on the shoulder and sending him on his way with the pony.

"Hidy, Miss Ross," LaBoeuf calls to me. "You are a sight to see."

I notice that he still has the spurs, which sing out their odd cadence of heavy clunks and light-as-bells tinkling as he saunters up the steps of the veranda. His jacket is the same ridiculous buckskin number too, though it is unbuttoned and flapping open to relieve the late summer heat. I notice someone has sewn up the bullet hole in the shoulder.

I smile. "Mr. LaBoeuf, I cannot help but notice you did not specify what kind of sight I am, exactly."

He laughs and gives a shake of his head. "Cagey as ever," he says. He looks at me again and shakes his head again, slower this time. "It has been some time, hasn't it."

Despite the years that have elapsed, he looks no worse for the wear, and indeed a great deal better than when I had seen him last, bleeding and maimed as he was. The weather is unseasonably warm, and no doubt the sun has been a burden on his journey here. Sweat lacquers his brow, but that only serves to increase his appearance of health and vitality.

I search his face for some sign of aging and note the gentle creasing around his eyes, which are as bright and gently blue as ever. He levels those eyes at me now, and I feel a sudden spike of something almost like fear in my gut. I force myself to hold his stare until finally he drops his head, putting his hands lightly on his waist.

"Well!" I say. "You must be very tired from your journey. Won't you come in, then? We have soda cake and corn on the ear and chicken pie ready for you."

/

"Four hundred yards!"

I have just recounted the story of Mr. LaBoeuf's rifle shot that killed Lucky Ned Pepper, much to Frankie's delight. Victoria has also proven an excellent member of the audience, gasping at all the right places. Mama tries to keep her composure, but I can tell the story has rattled her some. She was beside herself when I came home with most of my left arm gone, and out of mercy for her, I was spare with the details of what had happened to me during my great adventure. Now though, with Mr. LaBoeuf throwing in his own memories, I cannot help but regale in the specifics.

"Four hundred yards, at least," I correct. "So, anyway, we both breathed in, waiting. There was total silence for miles. And Lucky Ned just slid right off his horse," I say, clapping my hand on the table. "Dead as a doornail."

All eyes are on Mr. LaBoeuf now. Victoria and Mama seem to be fixing him with something between trepidation and disbelief.

Frankie says without disguising his reverence, "four hundred yards, that ain't even human!"

LaBoeuf says, "Like I told Miss Ross here, the Sharp's carbine is a instrument of incredible precision. Had I been using another—"

I can't believe he is demurring. Of all the times for modesty to crop up in him! I did not think it possible.

"A gun can be as fancy as you like, but it is just a hunk of lead and wood without a keen eye and a steady hand behind it," I say sharply.

"Well, ain't that the truth," he concedes with a smile. He looks at me then across the table, and I feel that funny spike of something from earlier run through me again. I turn and ask Victoria to pass me the basket of soda cake.

My mother clears her throat. To her credit, she's been a sport about the rather bloody turn our dinner conversation has taken.

"So, Mr. LaBoeuf," she says. "What brings you out to Yell County? Mattie tells me you have some business with the sheriff in Dardanelle?"

He takes a swig of water and leans back in his chair. "Yes Ma'am, I do. " Then suddenly he leans forward again and says the rest mostly toward Frankie and Victoria.

"Now, normally I would say that the grisly business I am about to describe has no place at the dinner table, especially in front of women and children. But, given you all have shown such great fortitude in hearing out the story of Ned Pepper, I believe I can make an exception here. What do you think, would you like to hear about the escapades of Paddy and Cecil Mauldin in the north of Texas?"

/

After dinner we sit in the parlor, the adults and I in chairs and Frankie and Victoria at our feet. It seems Mr. LaBoeuf possesses more manners than I would have expected from a man living hand-to-mouth on the prairie, and has brought us each a little gift from Texas.

It suddenly occurs to me that he was at some point a child with parents and siblings of his own. I wonder what they were like, whether his father shares his blue eyes and dusky blond hair. It occurs to me that too, he is likely of good breeding, what with his affected speech, finicky hygiene and ridiculous clothing.

From a leather satchel he produces for Frankie and Victoria a little sack of glass marbles, and a pretty doll with a deep green frock and eyes to match. For Mama he has a package of what he describes as "pure Texas coffee." She opens the top a bit and I admit that it smells quite good to me, though I do not care for the stuff myself. At any rate, she seems pleased with it, and I can tell the gesture alone has won some regard from her.

Finally, he reaches into the satchel and produces for me an oddly shaped device. He places it in my hands, and it takes me a moment to register what it is.

"A stereoscope!" exclaims Victoria, and then I recognize it immediately, having seen them in the shops at Dardanelle. This one is particularly pretty, furnished in a richly varnished maple, with a sculpted black leather hood over the binoculars.

"And this as well," he says, handing me a cloth pouch. I open it and find a neat stack of stereoscopic cards. I begin shuffling through them for one to place into the fitting, and he clears his throat, suddenly looking embarrassed.

"It is occurring to me just now that those particular cards might be a touch childish for you," he says. "I know you are not a child any longer, but I suppose it was hard for me to really understand that, as it were, while I was purchasing them."

Looking through the images, I see what he means. A number of the cards bear frivolous things both Frankie and Victoria might enjoy: a troupe of school children running with a spaniel, violets waving in the breeze, a funny illustration of a circus. Others though I notice are images of rocky cliffs and dessert plains I imagine must be located in Texas.

I stop when I reach a card showing a delicately painted eagle. The artist has inscribed below it in neat, spidery writing: _"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."_

"Philippians 4:13," I say aloud.

"What's that?" He stands from his chair and leans over the back of mine to get a look at the card. "Oh, yes. I thought you might enjoy that one."

I place the card into the fitting and we pass the instrument around. Victoria seems particularly taken by it, and I must admit that it is quite a site, that tiny image of an eagle soaring high above the canyon made so real by a pair of glass lenses. Frankie asks if we can look at the photographs of Texas next, but I tell them it is high time we all turned in for the night.

"Mr. LaBoeuf does have an early day tomorrow," Mama adds.

She herds them off to bed and I tell Mr. LaBoeuf that I will escort him to his room.

"That would be fine, though first I think I will take my pipe outside, if you don't mind."

/

I follow him onto the veranda. Twilight is bedding down over the prairie and in the distant hills. Though the air remains warm, a soothing breeze washes over us as we sit. Mr. LaBoeuf's match flares briefly into the bowl of his pipe, and he leans back with a sigh of what I suppose must be contentment. Tendrils of smoke curl about his face, and I can smell the soft bite of the burning tobacco.

"Well," he says, "I will be meeting Sheriff Gillaspie tomorrow at nine. What will you do?"

"I was thinking I would ride into town with you. We shipped a crop of cotton to Dallas this year and I have been expecting a letter at the post office regarding the balance."

"You got it out awful early."

"It was on account of the prediction that the weevils would be particularly bad this season," I say. "I wasn't able to find a suitable price with our usual factor in Little Rock. They say the business is all moving eastward, or down south. I was eying a group way down in Galveston, but they would not give me a fair shake, as they say. I found a factor in Dallas that advertised 13 cents per pound, but I'll believe it only when I see the money in my hand."

"Dallas is quite a long way off for you to be doing business there, let alone Galveston."

"Even shouldering the shipping costs ourselves, we still reap more than we do with a local factor. Anyway, the market there was favorable for us this year. As I understand it, blight was widespread in your home state. My condolences to your farmers."

"I would not know much about that," he says. "You have been overseeing the family's affairs, then."

"Of course. Mama never had a head for sums, and frankly she is ill-prepared to manage little outside of Frankie and Victoria. Even that I must admit, I question from time-to-time."

"Those children have been brought up right so far as I can tell." He leans back in his chair and chews at his pipe stem. "You are content then to spend the rest of your days here in Yell County?"

"Of course," I say. "I have my father's estate to manage." I think about his words for a second, then add: "You make it sound morbid."

"I just wonder that a young lady your age does not think of her prospects," he says.

I do not allow him to elaborate on what those prospects might be. "Foolish dreaming is for foolish girls. I have my business here," I say. Then I turn and ask, "and your business has been rewarding you, I trust?"

He goes a little stiff at my words. He says, "I think of my position as a ranger as less of a business and more of a calling. It is privilege to serve the state of Texas."

"Oh, certainly," I say lightly. _There is that pride, _I think to myself.

He gives me a look but continues. "As far as compensation goes, it is irregular at best. However, I received a great deal of money from the reward for Chaney's body and have been kept well by it." He frowns for a moment. "I suppose I have you to thank for that, when all is said and done."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say. "From what I hear, 'Chelmsford's' chest was blown open by a Sharp's carbine rifle, an instrument that I have heard you are quite handy with."

"That is the conclusion that was reached in Texas."

I frown. Something has been weighing on me these four years. "Mr. LaBoeuf, did you ever come across my father's second California gold piece on Chaney's person?"

He exhales. "I regret to say I did not. But I did look on your behalf."

"Well, I thank you for that. I suppose nothing more can be done about it."

"I am sorry all the same. Do you still have the other?"

I pull a thin chain out from inside the collar of my dress and hold it up for him. The remaining California gold piece is looped on the end. It catches the faint orange light of his pipe bowl and shines like a tiny star in the dark.

I replace the gold piece. "Were they pleased with your retrieval of Chaney down in Texas?"

"They were," he says. "In the end, it did not seem to matter to the Bibbs family how he was executed, so I suppose you both won out in the end."

We are quiet for awhile as Mr. LaBoeuf steadily pulls at his pipe.

"Miss Ross, when I return to Texas, I will tender my resignation from the Ranger Corps."

I turn toward him in surprise. "But, why?"

He extracts the pipe from his mouth and taps it against the armrest of his chair for a moment before saying: "My shoulder never fully recovered from that rifle shot Marshal Cogburn generously doled me. You see, when the pain flares up, I have no choice but to take leave, which I have done several times over these past four years. Lately, I have noticed that even when the pain is dormant, I have very limited mobility with the arm. To stay in the field handicapped would mean endangering my fellow rangers, and that cannot be allowed to happen. No, I will tender my resignation. It is time."

"I am sorry to hear that, Mr. LaBoeuf, that is terrible news." I think for a moment, then say encouragingly, "though, the five hundred dollars from Texas, plus the reward from the senator's family, why, that is enough to keep a single man with few expenses afloat for years."

"The money is not my concern. No, what preoccupies me is how I will use my time. As a ranger, I have enjoyed the satisfaction and the excitement of enacting justice on the behalf of the state of Texas for over ten years. I wonder if there is anything I can do from here on out that will seem equally rewarding. I imagine not."

"There must surely be demand for a man with your experience," I say.

"A man with my experience, perhaps, but not my shoulder. As a very young man, I spent some time in prospecting. I could go back to that. It occurred to me that I could work as a private contract detective. I also have a good memory for legal matters."

"I do recall that," I say.

"I could perhaps see myself doing one of those things in the end," he muses. "And it would allow me to settle down, take a wife, start a family. The LaBoeufs still have people residing in El Paso where I grew up, I would not mind spending my remaining years out there."

We are still for some time, until I say: "Mr. LaBoeuf, I am pleased you managed to get in touch after all this time."

He holds the pipe in his hands, looking it over thoughtfully as though seeing it for the first time. "The truth of it is, I'd have done it sooner if I'd felt I had proper cause to. But I'm not sorry it took this long."

"And why is that?"

He turns his head toward me and we look at one another for a moment. Then he stands and shrugs. I can't tell if he intends the gesture as a response to my question. He knocks the ash from his pipe off the side of the veranda and says, "I think I'll turn in now if that's all right with you."

/

I show Mr. LaBoeuf to his room. He kicks off his boots and I tell him I will fetch him a pitcher of water for washing up.

When I return, he is reclining against the headboard, eyes closed. He opens them when he hears my steps. He has hung his jacket from one of the bedposts and I see he is wearing a soft chambray shirt. It is a blue not so different from the color of his eyes.

I quickly place the pitcher of water on his bedside table. It hits with a clatter.

"Well," I say. "I'll take my leave now. Good night, Mr. LaBoeuf."

"Sebastian," he says.

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. "Excuse me?"

"My name is Sebastian."

"All right," I say.

He closes his eyes again. "Good night, Miss Ross."

As I shut the door, I hear the shuffle of little feet and a poorly suppressed giggle in the hall behind me. I whirl around just in time to see Frankie and Victoria fleeing back into their bedroom. Two wide steps and I stick my foot in the door before they're able to get it closed.

"And what are you two still doing up?" I demand, pushing the door the rest of the way open and putting on my sternest face.

Victoria flushes crimson the way she does when she knows I'm about to bring the law down on her and she shoots a desperate look toward Frankie, who just grins like a fool back at her. In spite of herself, Victoria dissolves into a fit of desperate giggles.

"We're wondering if you'll make Mr. LaBoeuf your sweetheart," she manages to gasp out. "Frankie says he seen you blush when you look at Mr. LaBoeuf."

I'm taken aback and exclaim, "what! This is just—just silly!"

Frankie's laughing now, too. "Were you giving him a goodnight kiss, Mattie?"

I must own that the color in my cheeks rises at this comment. "Get to bed you two," I snap. "And this time stay there!"

I stand out in the hall for awhile after, listening for the creak of their relaxing mattresses, the slow dissolution of their giggles into silence. Then I make my way down the dark hall toward my own bedroom.

Frankie and Victoria have inherited my father's predilection for humor of that sort. While I will indulge them from time-to-time, sometimes I do not know where they think up their jokes.

/

When I come downstairs the next morning, Mr. LaBoeuf is already seated in the parlor. I nearly bark out a laugh when I see him: he wears a ditto suit of charcoal grey with pale piling around the lapels and collar. It is a nice enough suit I suppose, but it looks a bit strange on him, like seeing a dog wearing trousers.

"Good morning," he says, shifting somewhat uncomfortably in his chair.

"Did you not think your Texas trappings impressive enough for the Sheriff?" I ask.

"What's that?" He blinks. "Oh, the suit. Well, I thought civilian attire more suited for a place like Dardanelle."

We share a breakfast of hot corn bread, fried potatoes and boiled eggs before heading out for Dardanelle. Mr. LaBoeuf takes coffee and I do not. I pack the leftover cornbread in my satchel for later, and as an afterthought wrap up some cured pork as well. We will want to have a quick meal before riding back home, and he is a guest after all.

Mama, Frankie and Victoria see us off. As the house and their waving figures retreat behind us, Mr. LaBoeuf calls back, "Adios!"

I do not turn back as I do not want to lose my balance.

This does not escape Mr. LaBoeuf's attention and he says to me, "you ride very well despite your impediment."

"It took me a year or so to really get the hang of it," I say. We are riding at a leisurely pace, and conversation feels pleasant and easy, so I add, "I believe in many ways, I am a better rider now than I ever was with both arms, on account of all the practicing I had to do."

"Your horse responds magnificently to you."

"She is a beautiful mare, is she not?"

"She is. Do you call her 'Little Blackie' as well?" His tone is teasing.

I give him a scornful look that he does not notice, or at least pretends not to notice. "I do not," I say. "That would make little sense considering she is chestnut in color. Her name is Thankful."

"That is an unusual name for a horse," he informs me.

"I suppose it is. When I was a little girl I met a cousin Pike County with the same name and I thought it quite nice."

We ride awhile longer, and I take the liberty of pointing out the familiar landmarks, as well as listing the names of the farms that we pass. I do not know how well Mr. LaBoeuf is listening as he is uncharacteristically quiet. I have the impression he is mulling something over, probably the Mauldin business. I grow tired of chattering after some time and stop.

Mr. LaBoeuf is still silent, and I soon become lost in my own thoughts. I do not entertain idle daydreams, but a person can get a good deal of useful thinking done while on a trip like this. I'm distracted though, when Mr. LaBoeuf suddenly says "Your riding costume is great deal finer now than the one I recall you wearing four years ago." He gestures with one hand to my high-necked blue wool riding habit. The left sleeve is pinned up of course.

"That was my father's coat I wore back then," I remind him.

"This one is far more becoming."

I feel myself go quite scarlet, and hope the shade from my hat provides adequate cover.

"You would do well to keep such opinions to yourself, I think," I say sharply.

"My apologies. I surely meant nothing by it."

It seems likely that he really did not mean anything by his words. I know that men often just talk this way around young women, though I have no patience for it. I am unfamiliar with the customs of Texas, but if Mr. LaBoeuf is any example it would not surprise me if such forward comments passed for casual conversation there.

I say, "we should pick up our pace a bit if we want to make it to Dardanelle by nine," and then I dig my heels into Thankful's side perhaps a bit harder than is necessary.

/

I see Mr. LaBoeuf off at the Sheriff's Office and walk the distance to the Post Office. As expected, there is a letter from Dallas waiting for me. The return address bears a Texas seal. Thanking the clerk, I take the letter outside and read it on the steps:

_Dear Mr. M. Ross,_

_We have received the 76 bales / 38,461 pounds of cotton shipped from your estate. We previously quoted you a price of 13 cents per pound for ordinary. Recalculated to the current market rate of 11 cents per pound, you are owed a total balance of $4,230.71. Please advise how you wish to proceed with this transaction._

_Sincerely,_

_J. Hardie_

_Cotton Factor_

_W.S. Beadles & Co._

I fold the letter crisply into two and place it in my pocket. I stand on the steps for awhile, considering my position. The sun is lazing upward in the sky, and the early afternoon heat has begun to build like a low hum just below a level of discernable discomfort. Sometime between now and when I left Mr. LaBoeuf with the Sheriff, the city has roused itself, and merchants and men in suits hurry past the post office.

A young couple, a man and woman, pause near the steps where I stand. I see that the woman's sleeve has come unbuttoned at the wrist, and she is having some difficulty closing it again, encumbered as she is by a lacy fan and small purse. Her companion gently pushes her hand away and buttons the sleeve for her. She rewards him with a warm, indulgent smile, and as they resume walking she slips a hand through the crook of his arm.

She meets my eyes as they pass by me and I give her a scowl to show my disapproval at their public affection, but she just smiles at me, too. It is not the same smile she gave to the man, this one vague and distant-eyed.

No matter. I have a list of errands to run while Mr. LaBoeuf is at his meeting, and so I attend to those next.

/

It is well past noon by the time Mr. LaBoeuf exits the Sheriff's office. I have taken a seat on a railing in the shade of the building, and I wave him over. I have a napkin spread in my lap and am halfway through a piece of corn cake.

"My apologies, Mr. LaBoeuf," I say. "I have begun eating without you."

"No matter," he says. I hand him his canteen. He gulps liberally at the water, then uses his handkerchief to mop his brow.

"Hot as dickens in that Sheriff's office," he says, taking the hunk of corn cake I offer him.

"And how did your meeting go?"

He shrugs. "It was fine. I gave what information I have on the brothers' movements, their tendencies, but I do not think they will pursue the Mauldins actively. They've gone quiet since crossing into Arkansas, so the law does not consider them a priority." He sounds disappointed. I think of the combination of his bum shoulder and his preening vanity. It is important for a man like that to feed necessary and productive.

"So I suppose you'll be heading back to Texas, then?"

"I suppose so." He mops his brow one last time before replacing his hat. The dark grey wool looks rather severe against his fair skin and hair, and I think it does him a disservice.

"Look here, Mr. LaBoeuf," I say. "I have a proposition for you."

He looks distracted. "And what's that?"

"Our cotton factor is trying to shortchange us for our product. I need to go to Dallas to straighten out the matter, but I'll need an escort. Now, ordinarily I would hire Yarnell to accompany me on this type of business, but he's getting on in years, and his daughter is expecting a baby in the next couple weeks. I know he'd like to be around for the birth, and anyway I'd prefer someone familiar with the area. So, it occurred to me, who better for the job than a Texas Ranger?"

LaBoeuf now looks thoughtful, though I detect an obnoxious hint of amusement in his face. He carefully closed expression is not as artful as he would like to think. He takes another swig from his canteen. "Has this factor cheated you?"

"Not per se, but I believe he is attempting to take advantage of my distance. He thinks I will not have the resources nor the wherewithal to remonstrate."

He reflects for a moment then says, "well, I cannot use the force of law if he has not actually stolen anything from you, Miss Ross."

"You don't need to. Your presence as a perceived agent of the law alone should be enough. I can be quite persuasive myself."

"I do not doubt that."

"We will take the train from Dardanelle down to Dallas. You can leave your appaloosa in our stables during the trip. I will pay you twenty-five dollars each way to accompany me, plus meals and board, and your train tickets, naturally. To top it off, I will pay you a bonus of another twenty," I say. "That is a possible seventy dollars, but either way you will earn you a neat profit of fifty."

He swipes the hunk of corn cake from my lap and takes a large bite, studying me as he chews. He swallows and drains the rest of his canteen. "I will do it for no less than forty dollars each way."

"Forty is highway robbery," I retort. "I will pay you thirty."

He considers this for a moment. "All right then, thirty."

He extends his hand and I shake it.

I allow a smile. "I hope you don't feel you're being 'hoorawed by a little girl,'" I say.

He laughs, a good honest hard laugh. Then he says, "I see no little girl."

/

Mama is displeased when I explain my plans to her. She says nothing in front of LaBoeuf or the children, but she approaches me when I head to my room to I pack my things.

"But Mattie, you barely know the man," she protests, if you can call it that. She is so soft-spoken I have some difficulty rebutting her without feeling like a bully.

"I know him well enough," I reply, folding a pair of stockings into my trunk. "It'll be okay, I promise."

She looks me over nervously. "Mattie, bright as you are, you—you do not understand yet the dangers facing a woman your age. Men will take, well, _advantage_ of you, given the opportunity."

"Mr. LaBoeuf is a career officer of the law, and a trusted friend. He saved my life, I need not remind you."

She chews her lip. I can tell from the way she is looking at me that she is still unconvinced. She is no real threat to my plans, but I feel a little sorry for her. Mentioning that Mr. LaBoeuf saved my life also reminds her of the state of my short arm, of almost losing me altogether.

In my youth, Mama was a very mild, placid woman, but since Papa's death she has become rather prone to fits of anxiety and depression. I do my best to keep her in good spirits.

"I will be fine, Mama," I say, more softly now. "And it is essential we get the full balance owed us on this crop."

"Can't Lawyer Daggett see to it?" she pleads.

"He will be in Little Rock for another month."

"Well, why not just send Mr. LaBoeuf to retrieve the balance on his own?"

I snort, pulling my grey riding coat from the closet. "I have seen the man in negotiation. He would somehow return with 9 cents per pound. I do not know how, but he would do it."

Mama says, "so you would trust this man with your virtue, but not your money?"

I smooth my riding coat out across the bed. "Well, if you think of it that way, then yes."

/

Yarnell drives us to the train station in Dardanelle in our family's coach. Mama and Victoria see us off at the house, but Frankie pleads to come along to town. I tell him no, because Yarnell is feeling under the weather and I know that Frankie will be yammering non-stop both ways, but Mr. LaBoeuf says I should take it easy on him.

"If the boy wants to come for the ride, just let him," he says. Frankie beams at him and I scowl.

"Well, you have 'turned over a new leaf,'" I say. "As I recall, you were staunchly against allowing children to ride along with you in the past."

"A ride to town and a ride to capture a fugitive are two very different things," he points out. "Anyway, someone changed my mind about that."

I help Yarnell lift my little traveling case into the back and tie it in place.

"Are you sure you will be up for this?" I ask. He looks a touch pale, and has a handkerchief out with which to catch his dry coughs.

"I'll be all right, Mattie," he says. "I am on the road to recovery, should be as good as new in a few days."

"Well, don't let little Frankie get you down when I'm not here to mind him."

"He's a good boy," Yarnell says. "Don't you worry about him."

Mama gives me a tight, long hug. "Be _careful_, child," she whispers.

I give Victoria a quick squeeze around the shoulders. "I'll be back in a week at most," I tell her. "You watch after Mama, tend to her moods, all right?"

She looks at me with her limpid grey eyes, so oddly solemn for a girl her age. "Don't worry, Mattie. Frankie and I know what to do."

"All right then," I say, straightening. "I'll write from each point in the trip that I can."

And like that, we are off. Like I told Victoria, this will not be a long trip. Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel an almost physical tingle in my gut as I watch the farmhouse recede into the distance behind the coach. Excitement, I suppose, at the prospect of seeing places I have never been before. I own the feeling is not unpleasant.

Mr. LaBoeuf, perhaps noticing the faint smile playing over my mouth leans over and says, "ready for another adventure?"

"An errand of this nature is hardly an adventure," I say.

"In Texas, everything is an adventure," he tells me.

/

Author's Notes: The time frame and characters for this fic were based largely on the screenplay for the Coen brothers' 2010 version of _True Grit, _with some additional details extracted from deleted scenes from the script that did not make the film, as well as the original novel by Charles Portis. The bulk of the events in the Portis novel takes place in 1873, at which time Mattie was 14 years old (putting her year of birth at 1859), and LaBoeuf around 30-35 (b. approximately 1838-43). **Edited to add: Thanks to commenter xcgirl08, who pointed out that since Rooster died in 1903, the events of the film would have actually taken place around 1877, putting this story at 1881.**

I did a small amount of research going into this fic, especially regarding the geography and demographics of Arkansas, as well as the cotton trade and domestic life in the US around this time. That said, I am by no means well-versed in this time period or the region, and gladly welcome any input and criticisms from readers who are. Much of my research turned up information about American life closer to the turn-of-the-century (c. the 1890s) so some of the details may be slightly anachronistic.

Also anachronistic (and otherwise wildly inaccurate or impossible) are the details regarding train travel. According to my (very limited) research, there was little passenger rail transport in Arkansas until the 1880s and later. Portis's novel (and by extension, the Coen brothers' film) obviously suggest otherwise, so I stuck with their portrayal and filled in my own details as needed.

I went back-and-forth about giving LaBoeuf a first name, but it eventually became unavoidable, so I decided to get it over with as soon as possible. My goal initially was to find as unremarkable a name as possible so that it neither added nor took anything away from his character. Then I decided something with a little panache was actually most fitting. He will be referred to largely as LaBoeuf from here on out, though.

Also, I believe in the novel is it made clear that LaBoeuf will not receive reward money from the state of Texas if Chaney is not brought back alive. I omitted this detail for no particular reason.


	2. Chapter 2

The Dardanelle train station is lousy with people. We have to push our way to the platform for the 9:13 to Little Rock, where we will transfer to a second train that will take us straight through to Dallas.

We bid a hasty farewell to Yarnell and Frankie, who very spiritedly resists my attempts to force a kiss on his cheek. I do not much care for meaningless affections, but as I learned early on you never know which goodbye will be your last, so you may as well make them all count.

"Come on, Miss Ross," Mr. LaBoeuf says. "That is the last call to board."

"All right," I say. I reach for my case but he tells me not to be silly and grabs it himself.

It is a small case, but I suppose the weight of it surprises him because he says, "what do you need with all this anyway? What is in here?"

I tell him to mind his business. It is only clothes, he need not make a fuss.

The train is as crowded as the platform and Mr. LaBoeuf seizes upon the first free seats we come across, facing a middle-aged couple in fine traveling clothes. Mr. LaBoeuf puts my case up top and slides in across the bench, gesturing for me to sit beside him.

I say, "I want to sit by the window."

He says, "I am not accustomed to riding on trains, and the movement nauseates me. I need to sit by the window or else I will become ill."

"Well, I do not go about riding trains daily either," I point out. "How do you know I will not become ill?"

"We can switch back and forth at each stop, how does that suit you?"

"As your employer—"

He says, "how about as my friend?"

I relent and sit. I say, "so we are friends, are we."

He flashes me a grin. "Sure, we are friends."

The woman across from us fixes me with a curious stare. She is wondering about my arm. I give her a deliberately frigid look to let her know her gawking has not escaped my attention. She quickly casts her eyes out the window as though admiring the view of the dusty station.

Mr. LaBoeuf points out Yarnell and Frankie, who are squinting up from the platform at the train's soot-covered windows. They are searching for our faces, I imagine. We wave enthusiastically, but so I suppose does everyone else, because they don't see us. The train starts to pull away, so I give one last wave but that too is missed entirely. This leaves me feeling morose.

Mr. LaBoeuf pulls out a sack of biscuits that Victoria gave us and inspects one before taking a generous bite.

"Those who eat willy-nilly outside of mealtimes grow sluggish and slow," I tell him. "You ought to save those for suppertime."

"And you ought to save your sauce for Dallas. At the rate you are spending it you will run out before you are able to get your twelve cents for that cotton."

"Thirteen cents," I correct him.

He seems somewhat annoyed with me so I take out a newspaper that I bought at the station. The front page is splashed with a drawing of the Mauldin brothers' faces. I think this is silly as no one has seen hide nor hair of either of them since they fled Texas. I do not care for newspapers. All the editors ever see fit to print is sensationalism and trash, and this particular rag is clearly no exception.

That said, there are useful parts of a newspaper as well. I turn to the obituaries.

/

We let pass an hour in silence. Mr. LaBoeuf's eyes are closed and naturally I take it he is asleep, but presently he says: "What is your plan, Miss Ross?"

I say, "I have brought with me the previous agreement we made with the factor with the estimated cost of thirteen cents. The quote was not binding but it was solid, and little could have changed between the time we made it and now. I will make the factor see that we are in the right."

"I wonder what you will do next year, when they try to cheat you again."

"They will not get the opportunity," I tell him. "The cotton business is moving both south and eastward, we will not try our luck in Dallas a second time. I will go to Mobile if I have to."

"If the business is moving in that direction, why not move your family out of the state?"

I say, "you seem to have a prejudice against Arkansas, Mr. LaBoeuf."

He opens his eyes and grins. "I do not. I am merely wondering if Dardanelle is not too small a place to contain someone like yourself."

"Arkansas is a 'top-notch.' Yell County is 'top-notch' as well."

"It is _small_," he repeats. Then he says: "I think you know that. I think that is why you asked to take this trip. You could live out the rest of your days on your estate, flipping numbers in your ledger season after season, and I imagine you would even be happy to do it. But ask yourself why you are really here, on this train. It is not for the extra cent per pound of cotton. Tell me there is not a small voice inside of you that wonders if it would be a mistake to never leave home again. You are afraid to grow up without one last jaunt into the unknown, and you should be! I have felt that feeling, it is why I joined the Rangers, and I can see it now in your eyes."

"You speak too freely about what you do not know, Mr. LaBoeuf. Too freely." I say, "I love my family's estate and I would sooner die than part with that land. Not all of us aspire to run about the wilds for the rest of our lives like you."

"What of marriage," he says. "Do you think you will find a husband with enough wit and polish to satisfy you in Yell County?"

"I am 18 years old," I tell him. "I do not think about finding a husband at all."

"18 is nearly 20, and 20 is near enough 25. You will be an 'old maid' before you know it."

"What of you?" I retort. "You are twice my age easy, and I do not see you getting married."

"The wife of a ranger has a difficult life," he says. "Now that I am about to retire, I am considering my options."

"Oh, tell me," I say, "can you not choose between your many girlfriends, or do you just prefer hopping from one loose woman to the next?"

His face purples and he says, "I do not have 'many girlfriends.' I see clearly now that you still harbor a low opinion of me, but I assure you that you are wrong."

I say, not very kindly, "may I ask who mended the holes in your jacket?"

He looks down at the neat stitching in the breast of his buckskin jacket as though he is seeing it for the first time. He opens and closes his mouth but does not reply.

I take his ensuing stony silence as a victory for myself. Funny that it does not make me feel much better.

/

It is dusk by the time the train draws into the station at Little Rock. A glorious sunset is upon the city: shoots of vermillion and violet and gold arc wide across the sky. It does not do to grow fond of this material world, but there is no evil in appreciating the natural splendors our Lord creates.

Mr. LaBoeuf says, "it will be dark soon, we should move toward this boarding house of yours." It is the first thing he has said to me since our fight on the train, and he does not say it in a particularly friendly tone of voice.

I have decided we will stay at the Little Penny, an establishment that twice accommodated Papa and I, each time he brought me down to Little Rock with him on business.

As I recall, it was named after a hen the owner reared right there in the house. This sounds like the sort of brainless thing one might expect from city folk, but it was actually very endearing. Papa got a real 'kick' out of it, and so did I. The animal had a small basket in the parlor where she liked to roost, at the foot of her master's favorite rocking chair.

A pair of small boys are loitering around on the platform, apparently finished for the day with selling whatever it was they once carried in the matching sacks strung over their shoulders. They give us directions to the Little Penny and I offer them a nickel each.

We take a few wrong turns, and it is quite late by the time we arrive at our destination. I say nothing of it as we walk but I am very happy to have a _bona fide_ Texas Ranger in my company. Little Rock is a pleasant enough city during the day, but I would not want to walk it alone at night.

A night clerk greets us at the Little Penny. He is seated around a table with three other men playing a dice game with which I am unfamiliar, but he rises politely when we enter.

I am told the owner I remember from my childhood died two summers back after suffering for years from a weak heart. Little Penny herself has passed on as well.

As I make the arrangements for our rooms, Mr. LaBoeuf casts an eye around the parlor at the other men, who have halted their game waiting for the night clerk to return. They are giving us a 'once over.' Two of them have soot on their faces, not smeared on the surface like makeup, but caked deep into the pores like they have been living in a mine for years. I suppose they work for the railroad. I cannot imagine what else could cause them to look like that.

"A fine choice of accommodations you have made, Miss. Ross," Mr. LaBoeuf says in a low voice.

"It was all right the last time I was here," I tell him. "Papa would not have booked it if it were dangerous."

"Well, I think the 'Little Penny' has degenerated some since then,"

I look again toward the dice-playing men. Mr. LaBoeuf may have a point, but I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing I agree. I say, "our rooms have locks, we will be fine."

/

I can hear men cussing and yelling and tramping up and down the stairs all night. I put a pillow over my head, but I still sleep poorly.

I suppose the rougher elements in the house must sleep through the day to make up for their nighttime mischief because it is refreshingly quiet when I wake in the morning.

My bones feel stiff as I dress myself. I have grown accustomed to dressing with one hand, but it does take me some time to style my hair. I twist it into a neat loop at the base of my neck and pin a net over it. I am not beautiful, but I effect a neat appearance and no one can say otherwise.

I open my door and nearly scream out loud. There is a man sitting on the floor in front of me. Rather, it seems he was asleep with his back against the door, an arrangement that was spoiled when I opened it.

It is Mr. LaBoeuf.

He recovers and stands quickly. "Good morning, Miss Ross."

"Have you lost your mind?" I say. I am speaking perhaps louder than is necessary, I do not like being surprised. I own too that I may still be angry with him for our fight yesterday. I am not known for my mean streak for nothing. "What are you doing sleeping on the floor? Have you been here all night?"

"Not the whole night, no."

Here is what happened. The same men who had kept me awake with their cussing and yelling had kept Mr. LaBoeuf awake as well, and in the middle of the night he decided absolutely that the Little Penny was no place for a woman alone. He knocked on my door to check on me, but I did not hear him, I suppose due to the pillow I had clamped over my ears. Not one to be deterred, Mr. LaBoeuf decided he would pass the night there in the hallway.

"I hired you as an escort," I tell him warily. "Not as a watchdog."

"You should be more grateful than this," Mr. LaBoeuf says. "The dice players were also drunkards." He rubs the small of his back as he speaks. I take it he is even more sore than I.

I say conciliatorily, "at your age, you ought to be kinder to your back."

Downstairs, the night clerk has been replaced by a mousy woman who initially appears much younger than she actually is. I pay her forty cents for our breakfast, which amounts to little more than two cups of watery grits. I express my displeasure, but she just gives me an anemic little shrug. I have no patience for people who do not take pride in their work. In my opinion it spells a lack of character.

/

At the train station, Mr. LaBoeuf spots the boys who gave us directions last night. It being so early in the morning, their wares sacks are full. They are selling tamales and I buy two. I have only seen tamales in Fort Smith and have never tried one before, but Mr. LaBoeuf tells me they are good and that they eat them all the time down in Texas.

He says to the boys, "you did not give us good instruction last night. We had a devil of a time finding the Little Penny."

We board the first Cotton Belt passenger train of the morning bound for Dallas. It is only four cars long, but I am told it makes good time. I think to myself, _farewell good city of Little Rock! Farewell my dear Arkansas!_

I find us a pair of seats across from a stout man wearing a maroon vest and a shabby Stetson drawn down over his eyes. He is already asleep and his snores are thin and reedy.

Mr. LaBoeuf claims the seat by the window and says we can switch back and forth again at each stop. I say it is not fair, as he took the window first on the last train. I suggest we flip a coin. I lose.

I remain exhausted from my poor rest the night before, and soon, window or no window, the rhythm of the train lulls me to sleep.

/

I suppose it is because I am seated upright, but I doze fitfully and when I wake it is like I cannot breathe for a long moment. I open my eyes and the air rushes into me, sweet and gratifying. I am mildly confused by my surroundings.

The side of my face is pressed against warm, smoky-smelling leather and it occurs to me with a jolt that I have been sleeping with my head resting on Mr. LaBoeuf's shoulder. I jerk away like I've been burned.

The sun is over-bright in the sky, fiercely glinting through the windows and waging warfare on my eyes. I squint and put my hand up to shade myself. I estimate it is just past noon. There are fewer passengers now than when we boarded, but the stout man with the Stetson remains sleeping across from us.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"Just passed Texarkana a few miles back, let a load of people off," Mr. LaBoeuf informs me.

I realize that the train is slowing to a crawl. The change in velocity must be what woke me. I ask why we are barely moving.

"It is so we can stop at the Texas and Pacific crossing," Mr. LaBoeuf says. "The conductor came through and told us at the station."

"We were supposed to switch seats at every stop," I say. "It has been many stops already."

"You were 'conked out.'"

I cast a suspicious look at him, "how did I come to be leaned against you like that?"

"Well, you were flopping all around in your sleep and that is where you came to rest. I thought it best not to bother you, you seemed so tired."

He says, "you are a hard sleeper, it seems you can doze through anything."

"That is not true, I must be feeling 'under the weather,'" I inform him. As an afterthought, I add, "if it happens again, please wake me."

"I will do that," he says.

The train stops altogether. I look out the window and see that we are at the crossing. The landscape does not look altogether as I imagined Texas. A fair number of trees dot the horizon. They are wizened, dehydrated little things, but none of them have stickers as far as I can tell.

Mr. LaBoeuf takes a dime store novel from his satchel and flips through it. It seems like an oddly childish thing for him to carry. He tells me he picked it up in Austin months ago and that he has read it four times already.

"Why not get a new book?" I ask, but he just shrugs. He says he will read part of it aloud to me, and that I can read part of it aloud to him, and I agree, because this seems to be his way of making amends for yesterday's fight. There is nothing else to do at any rate.

The story is about a New York City detective in a rakish derby and suspenders. We follow him through the dank alleyways of the city where he is shot at and buffeted by hanging laundry while in pursuit of dangerous gangsters and gamblers. His informants are boyish hoodlums and buxom women of ill-repute. He has no friends. The narrator repeats this fact several times.

It is a silly story that at times borders on vulgar, but it is exciting enough and we have a good time of putting on voices for the different characters. Mr. LaBoeuf effects a Yankee accent that he claims is dead accurate, but it just sounds strange to me. I suppose he would know better, having had more firsthand experience with carpetbaggers than I.

"Would you cease your giggling, please?"

We look up, abruptly drawn out of the world of the story. It is the stout man sitting across from us. I had completely forgotten about him. He has removed the Stetson from over his eyes and is fixing us with an unpleasant, beady-eyed stare.

He continues: "I would like to get some rest, but am unable to sleep due to your ceaseless laughter. Reading should be conducted in silence, especially on a crowded train. You are too loud."

I say, "Sir, I am sorry if we have disturbed you, but I do not see how our quiet reading should agitate you. And I have not 'giggled' since I was as high as your knee."

He looks at me like I am something particularly unpleasant he has just found on the bottom of his boot. He turns to Mr. LaBoeuf and says, "your ugly wife has a mouth on her. Are you unable to keep her in line?"

Mr. LaBoeuf says, "you mind how you address her," just as I say, "I am _not_ his wife, I am his employer!"

The man waves a hand as though batting a fly away from his head. I have the feeling he regrets opening his mouth, but he is unwilling to back down now.

He says, "I do not know where you two hail from, but in back home in Morrilton, Arkansas our women know their place and mind their manners."

Mr. LaBoeuf stands, drawing the attention of several of the nearest passengers. He says, "Sir, I am a Texas Ranger, and in my home state men know how to show a lady courtesy."

I say, "I hail from Yell County just outside Dardanelle. My family has over 400 acres of good land, and I am a proud citizen of Arkansas through and through. I have apologized on our behalf for disturbing you, but I believe now it is I that is owed an apology for the way you have maligned me."

"Nothing doing," the man retorts. "You are this Texas man's paramour, I see no ring on your hand. I would not give my regard to a harlot."

Mr. LaBoeuf says, "Miss Ross, would you like me to arrest this man?"

The stout man cries out, "you Texas lawmen have no authority over a native of Arkansas!"

"While you were sleeping we passed over the state border. You are now in my jurisdiction," Mr. LaBoeuf says. "Either way it would not matter. If we were still in Arkansas I would hog-tie you and drag you on your belly to the nearest Texas jail cell! Now, you apologize to the lady."

The stout man goes pale and now I am certain he wishes he had never addressed us.

I say, "gentlemen, please, let us calm down. I believe this has gone on long enough."

Before I can continue, I hear a distinctive popping noise outside the train. It sounds far off, then suddenly much closer. I turn to Mr. LaBoeuf, whose hand drops instinctively to the revolver at his waist.

The sound seems so unlikely, and yet it is unmistakable. I would recognize it anywhere. _Gunshots_, I think.

For a moment everything is quiet. Then, quite abruptly, three men on horseback thunder past our window, heading toward the front of the train.

It is like a signal. Everyone is on their feet, yelling over one another and trying to get a better look outside.

The stout man is in the aisle, turning his head back and forth between our window and the window on the other side of the train. It is to no avail, we cannot see a thing from where we stand.

We hear more popping noises, much closer this time, and screams fill the train car.

The stout man says to no one in particular, "my God, they are holding up the train!"

"You do not know that," I say.

"Look out the window, you silly girl!" The stout man is yelling now. "They will kill and rob every last one of us, and there is no one around for miles to stop them!"

Everyone hears him this time and the result is bedlam.

Mr. LaBoeuf calls out to the panicking passengers, "I am a Texas Ranger, and I will take it upon myself to protect every last man and woman in this train car. However, we must have calm and order."

At that moment, the door to our car bursts open and a rangy man carrying a shotgun strides in. He yells, "everyone in their seats!"

We stare at him. No one moves. I suppose the man with the shotgun takes this as a sign of defiance because he pumps the barrel of his weapon and before I have time to make sense of what is happening, he blasts a hole through the chest of the stout man, who is still standing in the aisle.

The stout man does not even have time to cry out. He is blown backwards like he is made of sawdust and cotton and he crumples on the floor. Everyone is in hysterics. I own I must be in shock. The left side of my face is spattered with blood and Lord knows what other parts of the stout man.

"In your seats, I said!" The man with the shotgun pumps his weapon again and quite suddenly everyone is sitting silently, all except Mr. LaBoeuf.

The man swivels around and trains the shotgun on him. "Did you not hear what I said?"

Much to his credit, Mr. LaBoeuf does not waver. He slowly raises his hands, dangling the revolver from his thumb. "Whoa, now," he says. "Let's be reasonable about this, Paddy."

_Paddy Mauldin! Here, on this train!_ I do not know if I gasp out loud. Probably not. The stout man's blood is already drying on my face, puckering and tightening my skin.

"Well now, you know my name," says Paddy. "We associates?"

"My name is LaBoeuf. I was one of the Texas Rangers who pursued you and your brother about two months back."

"Rangers!" Paddy barks. "Damned Rangers!"

"Now Paddy," says Mr. LaBoeuf. "You keep it together. This does not have to get worse."

The door slides open and another man enters, this one holding a pistol with cedar inlays in the handle. He is built similarly to Paddy, tall and underfed, but where Paddy is decidedly unkempt, this other man has a neatly trimmed moustache and under his hat his black hair is combed back with pomade. He assesses the situation with steely, inscrutable eyes.

He frowns very slightly at the stout man's body and says, "what happened here?" He speaks as though it is just him and Paddy and he is not being watched by a train car full of terrified people.

"I did not like his look," Paddy shrugs. Then he says, "we got a Ranger back there."

The other man is already fixing his gaze on Mr. LaBoeuf and he says, "so I see."

"Cecil," Mr. LaBoeuf says, "you and your bother keep civil, now. Let's hear what you want, and no one else has to get hurt. I know you boys are smart. We are going to work this out."

The man Cecil just smiles placidly. At least, his mouth moves into the shape of a smile. He says, "all right, Ranger. We will 'keep things civil.' First, you are going to have to kick that revolver my way. We do not want to start a firefight in this train car, do we? It would be like shooting in a tin can. Very dangerous."

Mr. LaBoeuf makes to lean over me with the revolver, but Cecil Mauldin raises his pistol and cocks it in one fluid motion. I have seen men who are familiar with guns. It is rare to see one who uses a weapon so much like it is an extension of his own arm.

"You are making me nervous, Ranger," Cecil says. He flicks his gaze over to me. "Let the girl take it from you, nice and slow. She will bring it over to me, won't you, darling?"

It is like I am being dredged up from deep inside a well. "I will bring you the gun, but I will not consent to be called 'darling' by the likes of you," I say. Behind me I hear someone gasp.

Cecil's face looks positively ferocious for a second, but then it is like a mask drops down and he is smiling all placid again. "You have a lot of cheek. I do not approve of that in a woman. Bring me the gun easy now and I will not have to smack you on the mouth."

I gingerly take the gun from Mr. LaBoeuf's hand and walk it up the aisle. It is slow going because I do not want to remove my eyes from either Cecil Mauldin or his pistol for even a second, and yet I must navigate around all the spilled luggage and the horrible bits of the stout man that litter the aisle of the train.

I reach Cecil and deposit the gun in his open hand. He smirks at me, looking me over. He has a face that is as sharp as a knife, but nevertheless his features are well-formed. Had he led another life, he might have been nice-looking. In this life, his skin is weathered beyond his years and he is missing a number of teeth.

"How came you to lose the arm?" he asks.

"That is a rude question, and I will not answer it," I say.

At that moment three more men loaded down with rifles and bulging bags on their backs enter the car. Cecil gestures for them to shove past us.

"Go through all the trunks," he tells them. "Take any jewelry or watches or purses you see on the passengers. I will be splitting up the goods after so mind nothing accidentally falls into your pockets. It would be bad news for you if that were to happen."

He looks back at me and I see his eyes focus in on my throat. Quick as a cat, he snatches the gold chain that is around my neck and pulls Papa's gold piece out from inside my dress.

"Well, this is an unusual trinket," he says. "I have not seen a California gold piece in a good many years."

"You cannot have it," I say. "Look here, I have a small store of money in my trunk that I will give you, but that gold piece belonged to my late father. He was gunned down by a coward like you."

"That is a sad tale," says Cecil Mauldin. "But then, the world is full of sad tales." He jerks his hand hard, wrenching the chain from around my neck. The clasp cuts my skin and I note distantly that I am probably bleeding.

"Hey! That is enough! Now you leave her alone—" Mr. LaBoeuf makes toward me, but Paddy trains his shotgun back on him and shoots.

I cry out, but Paddy does not aim properly, just shoots wildly from the waist. The ball goes wide and buries itself in the dead stout man's upturned knee.

It is true that dead men do not bleed, but given the right circumstances their parts will still explode. It is awful. Mr. LaBoeuf lurches back against the window. Everyone screams.

"That is enough, Paddy," Cecil barks. Then he calls to the others: "All right, boys. We have dallied long enough. I have the money from the safe. Let us haul out."

He takes my chin in his hand and tips my face up until I am forced to look him in the eye. He grins.

"I thank you for the necklace and the story, darling," he says. "I only wish we could have spent more time together."

And like that, they are gone. We hear the men whooping outside the train as they tie up their bounty and mount their horses. There is the muted thundering of hooves against dry ground, and then nothing.

I feel a hand on my elbow and start. I realize that Mr. LaBoeuf is at my side.

"Are you all right?" he asks, turning me to face him. He looks very concerned.

"Papa's California gold piece," I say. "Cecil Mauldin took it."

"I know, Mattie." He pats down his pockets until he produces a filthy handkerchief which he uses to dab at the gore on my face. It occurs to me that he is trying to be tender with me.

I snatch the handkerchief away from him.

"Let me do that," I say. "I am fine, I do not need to be treated like a frightened child!"

I wipe off as much of the stuff from my face as I can, then fold the cloth in half and use it to dab at the blood on Mr. LaBoeuf's jacket. I do not know how one typically removes blood from buckskin, but the handkerchief does next to nothing. I let Mr. LaBoeuf attend to his own trouser leg, which is also bloodied up.

The other passengers are up and about as well. The car door slides open and I think we all gasp reflexively, but it is only the conductor, along with a group of passengers from the car in front of us.

We are told the engineer has sustained a shot to the gut, and that the fireman was 'winged' as well, but that everyone else is fine. Most of the gunshots we heard had been fired into the air outside, it seems. The stout man is the only person who was killed.

"The engineer will not be able to drive us onward in his state, but we are in the middle of nothing and he needs a doctor or he will bleed out," says the conductor. "We think it best if bind him up with whatever we have and carry him over to Red Lick."

"What is Red Lick?" I ask.

The conductor says, "the closest town. It is about two miles north of here."

I say, "I am from Yell County. I have never heard of Red Lick."

"There is no reason you should have," Mr. LaBoeuf interjects. He turns to the conductor and says, "are you sure you will be able to find a doctor there?"

The conductor tells him, "that is what the fireman tells us. He is from around here."

"Is it wise to just leave the train sitting here on the tracks unattended?" I ask.

The conductor says, "those bandits cleaned out the safe, and it appears they have taken all of the passengers' valuables as well. I do not think there is anything left to steal."

/

We make a rather somber parade tramping across the dry prairie: the train's crew, the thirty or so other passengers, and Mr. LaBoeuf and me.

The engineer's middle has been bound tight with a nightshirt from someone's luggage and he is laid out across a wooden pallet. Six men carry him by holding the edges of the pallet as they walk and I imagine it must seem unpleasantly to him like they are pallbearers at his funeral. The nightshirt is soaked through with dark blood.

Mr. LaBoeuf carries my traveling case, in which we have packed what remains of our things. Aside from the twenty dollars I am carrying on my person, and the thirty I paid to Mr. LaBoeuf before we left, all of my money has been taken by the bandits.

We have no choice but to leave the stout man's body with the train. I express some regret over this but Mr. LaBoeuf points out that the sooner we reach town, the sooner we can send someone back for him. I suppose he is right.

/

Author's Notes: First, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Your corrections and comments were terrific, and I can't tell you how much I appreciated them! I hope you enjoyed this new chapter as well.

Regarding the language, while the film and book are known for their lack of contractions, the contractions are not totally absent (ex. "I won't rest 'til Tom Chaney's barking in hell!"). My general rule in writing this fic has been to avoid contractions, while still serving the flow and rhythm of the dialog above all else.

Also, I believe one commenter pointed out that "okay" would not be used around this time period and to my knowledge, yes, you are absolutely correct! That was one of those words that kept popping up for me naturally while I was writing, and I made super efforts to avoid it in this chapter. Thank you!

Full disclosure: I wrote the train robbery scene without knowing anything about trains, then had to go back and revise the technical details. However, the spirit of it, as well as the location remain the same in this final draft. Oddly, in my follow-up research I came across an article in the New York Times from 1901 that detailed the robbery of a passenger train leaving Texarkana—exactly where "my" robbery was to take place! The engineer in the real-life robbery even ended up looking for help in Redwater, TX, which seemed serendipitously close (in name at least!) to Red Lick. I used some of the details provided by that article, but the bulk of it is pure fiction.

**ETA: I doubt anyone noticed in the short time this happened, but I changed the rating of the story from T to M for the violence in this chapter. After reviewing the rating policy, I decided to keep the rating at T after all. Please don't hesitate to let me know if you feel I should increase it to M.**


	3. Chapter 3

It seems flat impossible to me that a town could be hidden within a two mile radius of the abandoned train, that is how empty the landscape looks. But after much walking, a town does appear. Mr. LaBoeuf suggests that we send someone ahead to alert the townsfolk and locate a doctor, and so a young man with freckles is dispatched from the train crew. We watch him scurry off across the dry prairie.

During the course of our walk the train's crew have begun to defer to Mr. LaBoeuf, I suppose on account of his Ranger pedigree. He leaves me straggling behind with the rest of the passengers in order to converse with the conductor. I quicken my pace to catch up with him. I want to hear what is happening as well.

We are greeted by a group of concerned-looking men on what must be Red Lick's main street, if you can call it that. Little clapboard buildings line the narrow road, the largest of which is two stories and labeled with a hand-painted sign hanging over the door. The sign declares in neat red letters "T. G. Fletcher and Sons, General Store." Outside of that, I see no bank, no post office, and no courthouse or law of any kind.

I would like to point out to Mr. LaBoeuf that if this is what Texas has to offer us, he has no business calling Yell County "small," but it does not seem like the proper time so I hold my tongue.

Mr. LaBoeuf consults briefly with the crew and the townsmen, and they make the following arrangements: first, a young man from Red Lick will leave on a fast pony bound for Texarkana this very day. There he will make contact with dispatchers at the train station and have them send a new locomotive and crew to the Crossing with enough cars to accommodate us.

The young messenger will also make contact with local rangers and present them with a letter signed by Mr. LaBoeuf, requesting that a troop be sent to Red Lick to conduct a proper investigation and begin pursuit of the Mauldin brothers.

Someone presents Mr. LaBoeuf with a pen and paper and he quickly drafts and signs a letter that he entrusts to the young messenger. In the meantime, the other passengers from the train are herded off toward various homes and buildings with the promise of local hospitality until the new train arrives.

A pair of the townsmen help the train crew carry the poor gut-shot engineer inside the general store, where we are told a doctor is waiting in the back room. The engineer's face has gone very pale as chalk and his eyes are closed, but I can see he is still breathing all right.

"I will need to speak with the Rangers as soon as they arrive here," Mr. LaBoeuf says, more to himself than to me. Then he takes me by my good arm and says, "come on, we will wait in the general store with the train crew."

I shake his hand off and tell him, "I am capable of walking myself."

The store is empty when we enter, but we can hear urgent murmurs from the back room.

I look around. The place is dimly lit and not very well stocked, but it is tidy and smells faintly sweet and smoky. I note a stool beside a basket of sorry-looking yellow onions and gratefully take a seat. The little black boots I am wearing were not made for long treks across the prairie and I am exhausted.

I am about to tell Mr. LaBoeuf that we should see to our arrangements for the night when a young woman emerges from the back room carrying a wooden basin. She is startled by the sight of us, and upon seeing my face she exclaims, "oh heavens!" A good deal of water slops out of the side of her basin.

I do not understand her reaction until I remember that I am still splattered with the stout man's blood from when Cecil Mauldin shot him to pieces right in front of me on the train. Mr. LaBoeuf's handkerchief it seems has only succeeded in making my face look both bloody and generally soiled.

The young woman pulls a clean wet rag from her basin and rushes to my side. She says, "you are from the train as well? Show me where you are injured."

I stand before she can reach me and I say, "it is another man's blood on me, Miss. I am unharmed, but I would thank you for the use of that rag."

The young woman is thus relieved and hands me the rag. She smiles curiously at me. Her gaze flickers briefly in surprise as she notices my short arm for the first time, but she does not respond with repulsion the way I have seen others do.

She has a strikingly pretty face, tawny and heart-shaped with large limpid brown eyes. Her hair is heavy and dark. She is the sort of woman who 'turns heads' when she enters a room. I like her immediately.

Mr. LaBoeuf removes his hat and gives her a polite nod. I can see from the way he has thrown his shoulders back and puffed out his chest that her finer qualities have not escaped his attention as well.

"Hidy, Miss," he says. "As you guessed, we were on the train. A keen observation on your part." He opens his jacket to reveal his star badge. "My name is LaBoeuf and I am a Texas Ranger."

The young lady says, "oh, you are the Ranger that the train crew was telling me about, then. Well, I am Abigail Fletcher, and this is my family's place." Abigail steps toward him eagerly and says, "Mr. LaBoeuf, I was saying to the gentlemen from the train, I think it would interest you to know that our store—this very store—was robbed not eight days ago by the Mauldins."

This is news! Mr. LaBoeuf all but jumps forward. "The Mauldins were here! Eight days…why, they must have some kind of a hide-out in the area, then. Abigail, you are a witness and I will take your statement."

She replies, "I did not witness the robbery myself, I was upstairs at the time. We live above the store, you see. My brother Clay was minding the counter. He will be able to give you any information you need."

"Well, where can I find Clay?"

Abigail says, "I am afraid he will not be home 'til suppertime. He took our little brothers Petey and Henry hunting for quail in the switch grass up by Coyote Lane. If they do not catch anything in the morning, they rest during midday and hunt again in the evening. I expect that is what they will do today. But they will return before it is too dark."

Mr. LaBoeuf says, "was anyone hurt during the robbery?"

"Thank the Lord, no," says Abigail. "But they took all the money that was in the register, our best pony and our mule, as well as the one hundred dollars that Clay was saving up for the boys' schooling. That was hidden out back in the barn, though I do not know where, exactly. Clay minds that sort of thing. You will need to ask him for the details."

Mr. LaBoeuf says, "I am very sorry to hear you and your family have had to suffer this way, Miss Fletcher. I want you to know that I have sent urgent word about the Mauldins to the rangers stationed in Texarkana. I expect they will send a troop of men here to Red Lick within a matter of days."

This is a very different tone of voice than I am used to him using with me, that is for certain!

If his fancy words have made an impression on Abigail though, she does not show it. Instead, an oddly sad look flickers across her face. She only says, "we don't often see Rangers around here."

"Well, I am here now," Mr. LaBoeuf says to her with a foolish, buttery grin on his face.

I say a little loudly, "yes, though it is a pity he is on _leave_ from the Rangers. On account of his weak shoulder."

It is like they both suddenly remember I am in the room. Abigail exclaims, "oh, where are my manners! I am Abigail, and you must be Mr. LaBoeuf's—" She looks between Mr. LaBoeuf and me before trailing off uncertainly.

I open my mouth to explain that I am Mr. LaBoeuf's employer but he interrupts me.

"She is my baby sister."

I am so taken aback by this story that I do not have the wherewithal to protest. I throw Mr. LaBoeuf a look of utter fury that he pretends not to notice.

"Her name is Mattie," he continues. "Short for Martha. We ah, we were traveling down Fort Worth way to visit with some family."

"Well!" says Abigail. "It is nice to make both your acquaintances, though I am sorry we could not meet under happier circumstances. You must stay here with us while you wait for Clay. I will go upstairs and fix you something to eat if you are hungry."

"That is mighty kind of you," Mr. LaBoeuf says. "We appreciate your hospitality."

She disappears up a staircase by the door of the backroom. When she is gone I hiss, "your _baby sister_!"

"Look here, Mattie—" he begins.

I seize one of the yellow onions from the basket at my feet and hurl it at him. It hits him in the middle of his chest and he yelps, "hey!" as it drops to the floor. It is an absurd thing to do on my part, I know, but I am hungry and tired and angry and I am not thinking straight.

"You are going to have to pay for that onion," he tells me.

"I am your _employer_, Mr. LaBoeuf," I say.

He says, "Now, listen! I am operating as a Ranger here, and I need to maintain a dignified image in these people's eyes. It would not reflect well if I told them I am employed by a child."

"Oh, a _child_! Not two days ago you were calling me an old maid!" I say. "Which will you have, Mr. LaBoeuf, because you cannot have both."

"You are only cranky because your feet are sore, and your plans inconvenienced," he says, waving one hand dismissively at me.

"And you are only trying to make yourself look impressive for this pretty girl, Abigail," I retort, taking some grim satisfaction as his face and neck flush in response.

If he would like to say more he cannot for Abigail returns with a basket of cold corn cakes and a pitcher of milk. She sets us up at a little table by the counter and I thank her as graciously as I can, soured as I feel toward Mr. LaBoeuf. If Abigail notices the friction between us, she does not demonstrate it.

Mr. LaBoeuf remembers the tamales we bought in Little Rock and I fish them out of my traveling case. They are cold, and grease has soaked through both the corn husk and paper wrappers, but the meat in their centers is tangy and well-spiced. I ask Abigail to share the meal with us but she excuses herself, saying she is needed in the backroom to assist the doctor.

We both watch her go. Then Mr. LaBoeuf turns his gaze toward me warily and says, "do not start in on me again. I am the adult here and you will do as I say."

I say, "I am tired now, but do not think I have forgotten about this."

/

I nap for the slim remainder of the afternoon. There is no place to lie down so I just bed my head down in my arms at the table. When I awake the store is dark and there is no one around.

I suppose the excitement on the train has left me 'riled,' because the meal Abigail provided us is still sitting like a rock in my nervous gut. I stand and find I am quite off-kilter. I manage to trot outside (it is quite dark by now) and round the corner of the house before regurgitating the contents of my stomach onto the bare ground. It is unpleasant, as you can imagine.

I bend at the waist to catch my breath, hands braced on my knees. Slowly, the awful cramp in my gut releases.

"What are you doing out here?"

It is Mr. LaBoeuf. I grimace and spit. My mouth is still sour-tasting.

"Enjoying the scenery," says I.

"Yes, now is a fine time to get cute."

But his look of annoyance fades as he takes in my situation. "Are you ill? Let me take a look at you."

He comes up close and takes my face in his hands, peering at my eyes. His are attentive and searching, reflecting back the same color as the twilit sky. I do not know what he is looking for, but I am too unsteady to fight him off. His palms feel cool and dry against my flushed skin.

"You feel a bit warm, but your pupils look all right. You have expelled whatever was ailing you, I suspect." He releases me and says, "come, Abigail's made dinner for us and train crew. Even if you are still ill you should have some bread and water at least."

I stand and take a few deep breaths to steady myself. Mr. LaBoeuf watches me and says, "you are not going to swoon are you? Shall I carry you?"

I say, "were I dying I would not give you the satisfaction."

He says, "there is Mattie Ross. Now I know you will be all right." Then he laughs.

We walk around to the front of the house and I say, "you are awfully old to be my brother."

He looks at me carefully and says, "about that. It must have been quite a shock to you when I pulled that story out."

"I will say."

"I gave you my reasons for it, and they were sound," he says. "I am a stranger here. I cannot be known as the man employed by a child. Just play along, it will only be for a day or two more at most."

I consider this. I try to recall my earlier fury at him, but find I cannot. I say, "I will do it for ten dollars."

He stops and looks at me in what I suppose must be disbelief. "Good Lord, girl," he says. "Do you never stop thinking of your bank account."

I say, "you do not need to pay me now. If you would like, at the end of our trip to Dallas I will pay you twenty dollars instead of the thirty we previously agreed upon."

"At the end of our trip—oh, right. Dallas." He runs a hand through his hair.

"You have not forgotten about our arrangement?" I say, taken aback. "Or do you have other plans in mind now?"

"Of course not," he says. "It is only that so much has happened today, I temporarily lost my bearings. I will see you safely to Dallas and back home again."

"So, what do you say about my proposition?" I ask. "Twenty at the end?"

He says, "ten dollars is a lot of money for such a small story."

I say, "that 'small story' has erased my whole family, and the name of Ross. Anyway, what price would you put on your reputation?"

He gives me an irked look before saying, "fine. Twenty at the end."

We shake on it. I find my stomach is no longer churning, and I am even feeling a bit hungry. I say, "let's see what is for supper then, 'brother.'"

/

Author's Notes: My apologies for the tardy update! I've been really busy IRL, and frankly writing a story of this length, I get held up with all the editing it requires. I actually have about 25 more pages written (so far! Including some—spoiler—kissing, aha!) but I'm only comfortable releasing this much at the moment.

In order to make my updates more frequent, I will likely be posting shorter chapters about the same length as this one. This means the cut-off points aren't exactly where I'd like them to be, but I'm willing to compromise on this because it means 1) more consistent updates, and 2) I'm sure you guys would prefer to read this in smaller fractions, rather than getting 14 pages at a time. Or maybe that's just me?

Thank you again to those of you who reviewed Chapters 1 and 2! I can't tell you how much I appreciate your taking the time to leave comments—they really keep me slogging through this beast of a fic!

**ETA: I realized I somehow only uploaded half of this chapter. I am slipping in the second half about an hour after it was originally posted, my apologies if this affects anyone's reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

We pack into the dining room with the train crew and the doctor, the lot of us tired and dusty and smelling somewhat rank. The Fletchers' home is dimly lit, with low ceilings and small rooms, but like the store below it is tidy and pleasant. I have the impression it is likely one of the nicer homes in town. The decorating is fairly 'bare-bones' though I spot a fine pair of pewter candle sticks displayed proudly on the mantle—a little touch suggesting someone, probably Abigail, has endeavored to enliven the place.

The doctor sits beside me and introduces himself as Edwin. He explains that he is not a true doctor, but that he makes his living treating livestock, mostly. He says he did perform a fair amount of field surgery during the war.

He points to my short arm and asks, "did they use a Liston blade here?"

I pull my arm away instinctively and say, "you have been treating horses for too long, Doctor. Your bedside manner could stand improvement." Perhaps this offends him. I do not know, I turn away and speak with the fireman from the train.

The fireman tells me that the engineer is likely to 'pull through.' The poor man has been left resting in the backroom downstairs.

Abigail, as it turns out, is an excellent cook. The meal is somewhat small, owing I suppose to the fact that she was not expecting a to feed an extra six men (and one tall girl) when she arose this morning. But what she has prepared is delicious: a brown peppery stew brimming with chopped carrots and potatoes and what I think must be a wild game-bird, as well as a whitish bean I do not recognize. There are warm biscuits with sweet butter, too. Unlike the biscuits I am accustomed to, these seem to be cut with corn meal. In spite of my weak stomach I eat two.

She does not ask for any payment, but when Abigail leaves the table to fetch me some more butter Mr. LaBoeuf passes around his hat and we all pitch in some of what remains of our money.

As we do so, I hear the clatter of several pairs of footsteps coming up the stairs. I suppose Abigail hears it too for she hurries back into the room.

A man enters with two boys. I recognize them immediately as Abigail's kin—they have the same heavy dark hair and olive skin. The man though has hard bottle-green eyes, in contrast to Abigail's warm brown. I think, this must be Clay. He has a crutch under one arm and I see his left leg is oddly stiff, the foot pointed out at an odd angle. The boys are young, maybe Frankie's age. The taller of the two is carrying a sack over his shoulder.

I expect Clay would be surprised to see his dining room full of strangers, but he just surveys us with a canny stillness.

Abigail says, "Clay, these folks is from a train that was robbed—"

He holds up his hand and says, "I heard. We came by Duke Noblet on the way home, he told us the whole story."

He turns from her and gestures to the two boys. "Peter, what are you still doing with them birds? Get that sack down to the smokehouse."

Abigail produces another bowl and begins to serve Clay his dinner. She says, "you are mighty late tonight. Everything all right with the boys?"

"Well, you know how Duke likes to jabber," Clay grunts, making his way over to the washstand behind me. "Apart from that, the bird dog I bought from Lyle is simple-minded. Damned thing took off after a jackrabbit this afternoon, we had a hell of a time coaxing it back. Should have left it out there to be food for the buzzards."

"Aw, Clay, he's just a pup," says the smaller of the boys, Henry. Peter reenters the room now, unburdened of his sack of quails. They are both clearly hungry for supper.

"You two wash up first," Clay says sharply seeing them start to sit down.

He himself makes his way over to a seat at the far end of the table. His crooked leg gives him a pronounced limp, but he is able to walk. I decide that the crutch he was using when he came in must be helpful for long distances, but that he can get by on his own in the house at least.

Clay sits and sucks a breath in deep, surveying us. He does not smile. He says, "well, I welcome you gentlemen." His eyes fall my way and he seems to consider me for a second before adding: "And lady. I am Clay Fletcher. My family is sure glad to have y'all with us tonight."

The lot of us introduce ourselves. When it is my turn I say, "I'm Mattie Ro—"

A sharp pain in my shin. It takes me a stunned moment to realize Mr. LaBoeuf has kicked me under the table. I flash him a horrified look, but his face is impassive as he casually stabs a fork into his bowl. I suppose I should count myself lucky he did not dig his spurs into me!

The table is now fixated on me. I say, "I'm Mattie…Ro—Rose LaBoeuf." grating out the words. I now have a false middle name as well as surname!

Clay looks at me as though perhaps I am a bit silly. I do not blame him, frankly. I would think the same were I in his position.

Mr. LaBoeuf clears his throat and says, "she is my sister. We are from just east of El Paso."

Abigail says, "Mr. LaBoeuf is a Ranger. He will be assisting in the pursuit of them Mauldin boys who robbed us."

"That right," Clay says. He looks at Mr. LaBoeuf and I am surprised at hard, unmistakable contempt in his eyes. "Well, 'hats off' to the Ranger troop."

It is impossible to ignore the ice in Clay's voice. Abigail goes stiff and passes an anxious sidelong glance at her brother. The men around me keep plugging food into their mouths, but I can sense a tightening in their shoulders, the curious darting of their eyes.

If they are eager to see a quarrel go down though, they are disappointed. Mr. LaBoeuf pauses for a long moment, meeting Clay's eyes, but only says, "Yes, that is correct. I would like to interview you about the incident after dinner."

"Always happy to help the law," says Clay. His voice is dry as a bone.

/

I help Abigail with the washing up. The men from the train crew, drowsy on their full bellies, are given a stack of blankets and retire to a little barn around back of the place. I suppose they will bed down in the straw. Despite my long nap this afternoon, I find I am so tired I would happily fall asleep in the straw myself.

But Abigail says, "come on, you will share my bed. I will dig up an old flannel shirt of Mama's that should fit you all right."

I own I am not particularly pleased to wear some dead woman's night shirt, though I know in my head it is silly to be so "spooked."

Abigail brings me to her room, which I quickly realize used to belong to her dead parents. I find I can almost draw a line where their effects end and Abigail's begin—as though I can mark by the objects therein when they died. The sky blue quilt, the iron bed, the milk-glass pitcher on the washstand, these are their things. The small girl's clutch of dried prairie flowers on the beside table, the small colorful beadwork pouches handing from individual pegs in the wall, these are hers. I realize Abigail is younger than I initially thought, probably not much older than myself.

As she digs through a trunk of her mother's old clothes I wander to the dresser where I find a tintype of her parents on their wedding day. I am surprised at how fair her father is. He has whiskers not unlike Mr. LaBoeuf's, and a little billy goat's beard. As for his wife, Abigail looks just like her.

I say suddenly, "my father is dead, too. He was shot and killed by a coward in his employment." My voice catches in my throat as I think of Tom Chaney's face, his sour breath my cheek as he pressed a dull-edged knife to my throat.

Abigail says, "I am sorry to hear that. My parents died of influenza, along with my three little sisters. It was horrible—we near lost Petey and Henry. Clay and I were wretched with it for a long while, too. Clay was only 17 at the time, but he has done well taking care of the rest of us ever since."

I say, "that could not have been easy."

"No," she agrees. "But then, you know what it is like to lose a parent. And I am sure Mr. LaBoeuf takes good care of you."

It takes me a moment to register what she is saying. "Oh, yes. On account of he is my brother." I feel my gut twist at the lie. She is so earnest.

Abigail says, "here we are," handing me a green night shirt. I put it on. The hem hits just below the knee.

"My mother was a rather small lady," Abigail says by way of apology.

I am struck then by the undertone of melancholy in her. It is part of her demeanor, independent of mood—a low mournfulness in her eyes that makes her seem like she is peering at you from the end of a long hallway. It is like in illustrations of the Virgin Mother holding Christ, where her body is dipped in sorrow over His, like the stem of a wilted flower. Some women have this quality by nature. Mother does, and young as she is, so does Victoria. I do not.

I point to the beadwork pouches and say, "did you make these?"

"Oh!" Abigail says, her eyes lighting up. "Yes. Well, many of them. My grandfather, he was full Caddo, he taught me beadwork. Them two medicine pouches on the end are his."

"They are all beautiful," I say. "You are very talented."

"Thank you." Abigail smiles a little. "Back when my parents were alive, we would go to fairs over in Hooks, and even a few times in Texarkana. I would show my beadwork there while father sold his wares or traded livestock, whatever it was that year. I won a ribbon once. I was just nine years old."

"Are you working on any now?"

"Oh," she winces. "No. The materials are not easy to come by out here. Sometimes we have wagon traders coming through town, but…"

She waves her hand a little, as though shooing off whatever reverie she is in. She says, "it was only a childhood hobby."

I have the feeling this is something someone else has told her. I say with sudden vehemence, "you should take pride in your accomplishments. No one else will do that for you, especially when you are a woman."

She looks at me in surprise. Finally, she says, "I suppose you are right about that."

/

Abigail leaves to see Petey and Henry off to bed. She tells me the milk-glass pitcher in the bedroom is just for show and should I like to wash up, she has left a basin in the kitchen sink.

I make my way down the narrow hallway and back into the kitchen, which is now dark. Dim light spills from the dining room from where I can hear men's voices. Mr. LaBoeuf is conducting his interview with Clay. I keep my footsteps quiet so as not to disturb them. There is a heel of lye soap by the basin and I reach for it.

I do not intend to eavesdrop, but as I bend over the sink I cannot help but overhear Clay saying, "you have the number wrong. They actually stole three hundred from the barn. Plus the four or so from the register. I can get you the exact amount from my ledger."

"Your sister told me it was one hundred in the barn," says Mr. LaBoeuf, scratching something onto a piece of paper.

Clay gives a frustrated huff and says, "I told Abigail it was a hundred. Truth is, I do not tell Abigail much about our finances. I do not like to worry her about such matters."

Mr. LaBoeuf says, "Where was the money, exactly? Please describe this in detail.s"

"In the corner of the tack room, under an old milk crate. I had an old lock box with a key that Papa used to keep contracts in. Money was tucked in there." Clay sighs, "I was saving to send Peter and Henry to school in Texarkana, or even Fort Worth. Give them a fighting chance, like you people have down in El Paso, Dallas, wherever. Everywhere else but here."

At this last part, his voice goes tight and bitter.

Mr. LaBoeuf says, "I am sorry for your loss."

This just seems to agitate Clay. He says, "well, perhaps that is sincere, perhaps it ain't, but on the whole the Rangers do not give a damn what goes on in Red Lick, or any place like it."

I hear Mr. LaBoeuf shift in his chair and I imagine he has gone rigid at this comment. He sets down his pen and says, "well, hold on now, Mr. Fletcher!" he says. "Let's take a moment to cool down. I understand you are upset, but there is no reason to speak ill of the Ranger troop."

"I sent word to you boys in Texarkana soon as the robbery 'went down' eight days ago and have heard nothing back. Some defenders of peace!" Clay retorts.

Mr. LaBoeuf (I imagine his face has gone red now) says, "now, I am sure there is an explanation to that. I am not stationed in Texarkana and cannot account for it, but on behalf of the Ranger troop, I am here now."

"Yes," agrees Clay. "And it took a damned train robbery to pin you down!" I hear his chair scrape back on the floor as he stands angrily.

I deliberately drop the heel of soap from my hands. It lands in the basin with a splash. Clay calls out in a much different tone of voice, "that you, Abby?"

"It is only me," I reply, making my way to the doorway. I say, "I am washing up for the night."

The men both look at me, then quickly look away, as though embarrassed. It occurs to me that Mrs. Fletcher's night gown is a good deal shorter than is appropriate for a girl my age to be wearing. I feel my face flush and I quickly retreat out of the circle of lamplight, back into the darkness of the kitchen.

"My apologies for disturbing you gentlemen," I say.

"No problem," Clay mumbles gruffly, still refusing to face me. "We, ah—look, Mr. LaBoeuf, it has been a long day for the both of us. Let us retire now and conclude this interview tomorrow morning."

"That suits me," says Mr. LaBoeuf stiffly. He stands as well.

Clay says to him tiredly, "come. You can sleep in the parlor."

They push past me with mumbled apologies and disappear into the hallway, leaving me standing in the dark, at the edge of the brimming lamplight.


End file.
